Текст книги "The butcher of Avignon"

Автор книги: Cassandra Clark

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Cutting across the water was the long and graceful bridge of St Benezet, the bridge of Avignon, with its many arches, linking the peninsula where the cardinals’ private estates lay. The grey walls of the abbey were visible behind a curtain of rain with the garden of the old pope below.

With a slight turn of her head she could even see far downstream where the Rhone met two smaller rivers, the Sorgue and the Durance with a litter of small craft moored against the walls of the quays. She realised that the city was in an ideal location for trade through the Mediterranean and to the Lombard city states. Good connections. John and Peter would surely find a way to safety.

Lifting her glance she could see right across the wide plain to where innumerable small farms glimmered in the harsh light, milch cows sheltered under thatch in the water-logged meadows, and the cross-hatched fields of the arable strips, bare now, glinting with puddles, lay in what would be the Kingdom of France. Closer, on the bank of the peninsula, guarding the frontier, was the gaunt watch tower built by Philippe le Bel.

By leaning over the parapet she was able to peer down to the foot of the tower. It was a sheer drop of several hundred feet. A frisson ran through her. Heights did not usually bother her. It was its uninterrupted fall that was alarming.

Back again, over the walls of the city, she could clearly see the traffic passing over the narrow, many-spanned bridge. It would slow at the chapel half way along, then speed up until it reached the sentry posts at each end, slowing again as an unwieldy convoy of goods wagons, and people, looking like insects, jostled to get through the check points. There was no sight of Fitzjohn and the pope’s militia in all this.

She decided that it was a good sign. If the ferryman had refused to take the miners across in such a dangerous flood, they might have decided to cross by the bridge instead. They would have had to devise a way of getting past the sentries but with so much rain making the river treacherous it might have been their best chance. With no evidence of Fitzjohn and his man hunters they must have got right away.

She peered out into open country again. Once deep in the campagne, armed militia, whether carrying the papal banners or not, would meet with hostility and delays that two men travelling alone and looking like mendicants might avoid.

With the wind ruffling through her wet cloak she reluctantly left her watch tower and made the winding descent to the lower level. The guard had given her no problems when she mentioned the name Athanasius and now he didn’t even look up.

**

Bertram beside her. ‘No sign of him, domina. I think I should tell someone.’

She guessed at once whom he meant. ‘Who retains him?’

‘The Duc de Berry but he’s absent.’

‘Who does he answer to when his lord is away?’

‘A house steward.’

‘Name?’

‘I don’t know. Jacques something.’

‘Do you want me to speak to him?’

Despite his earlier words he looked indecisive. ‘Maybe we should wait a while. If his absence hasn’t been noticed it might be better not to draw attention to it?’

‘You think he might be amusing himself in the town?’

‘It’s very likely from what I’ve heard of him.’

**

Still no sign of Edmund either, nor Sir John Fitzjohn.

Hildegard braved the rain to go to the couriers’ office to see if there was news from England.

‘Nothing yet, domina.’

Momentous events were taking place in London and she felt frustrated at this absence of information. It must surely be the case that Sir Simon Burley, his grace the Archbishop of York, the Chief Justiciar and the mayor of the City of London had put their case to the king’s council and been released. Common sense dictated that loyal men such as they could not be accused of treason. It was madness to think it.

Back indoors she noticed three Cistercians strolling down the wide steps of the Stairs of Honour. Their white habits were visible through the arching loops in the wall. She could choose to retreat in a hurry before they saw her or continue to make her way steadily upwards on her original course. She chose the latter and came face to face with the three men half way up the stairs.

If she hoped Hubert would move aside to let her pass she was disappointed. He came to a standstill, blocking her ascent.

She looked up at him in silence. His dark eyes seemed to bore into her. His face was like chiselled alabaster. There was a pause as if he was choosing between several available comments. Then to her surprise he gave a small inclination of the head, murmuring, ‘Salve, domina.’

She replied with similar formality, dropping to her knees awkwardly on the stair, murmuring, ‘My lord abbot.’

One hand came out to raise her to standing. He held her arm for what seemed like an eternity while a puddle of rain formed round her feet. ‘I believe you have not met my supporters?’

The two monks accompanying him were from separate monasteries in England, strangers to her, greeting her with the innocence of those who do not imagine any past events colouring the present encounter. One of them, as she had noticed earlier, was thick-set, with a shaven head. His companion was lanky and looked as if he wouldn’t say boo to a goose.

They seemed interested enough to hear about the priory at Swyne and invited her comments on Hubert’s plan to extend the gatehouse at Meaux. Then one of them mentioned that he had noticed her in the company of Cardinal Grizac the other day and she had to explain about the murder and that she had been present when the youth was identified as an acolyte of the cardinal.

And then Hubert said, in an astonished tone, ‘But is this the same Grizac who was Dean at the York Chapter some years ago?’

She said she understood it was so, as his acolyte came from York.

Then one of the monks said he had heard some music the cardinal had composed and how impressive it was and what a good rendering the choristers had made of it and was he still composing? To which she had to admit ignorance.

And then, politely, they parted, with only Hubert’s glance somehow lingering after her as she ascended the stairway and hinting at words unspoken beneath a smouldering look.

**

Fitzjohn returned. If he had been in a rage before he left he was ten times worse now. A fruitless ride in the teeth of a storm into the hostile territory of the King of France was bad enough. To return without their quarry made it insupportable. Edmund had a black eye.

‘At least you’re safe,’ whispered Hildegard when she saw him in the passage outside the Tinel.

‘Yes, I’m looking on the bright side. And at least the others have got right away.’

‘Fitzjohn returned sooner than expected.’

‘Yes, the weather got the better of us and the French armies were harassing us and the pope’s commander decided the miners could not have travelled so far on foot in weather like that and that he would follow other lines of pursuit.’ He grimaced. ‘You know what that means. The pope has spies everywhere and anyone suspicious will soon be picked up – or so he believes.’ His face clouded. ‘Bertram told me about Taillefer. It’s irresponsible of him not to come back and let us know which way the men escaped. We might easily have come across them accidentally on the road.’

‘Taillefer’s probably sheltering from the storm.’

‘Even so, he should stick to our plan. What do you think the miners did when they left here?’

‘It’s anybody’s guess. Maybe they went by boat as far as they could, if they could get anyone to take them in all this. They might even have changed their minds and decided to travel right up to Calais by barge and miss out Aquitaine altogether.’

‘Too risky, surely? River traffic moves so slowly. And barges can easily be stopped and searched.’

Hildegard nodded. That was her view as well but with no news they could only second-guess the movements of the two miners. At least they had not been arrested by Fitzjohn’s search party.

**

Just as she could not second guess the escape route the miners had chosen so neither could she second guess what Fitzjohn’s reaction would be to his loss. Rage, yes. Enough flames to light the Avignon market place bonfire from ten miles away. But what would he do?

His mission to the pope was a disastrous failure.

Woodstock’s gift, whatever its purpose, had vanished into the morning mist. Woodstock himself was not noted for his peaceful and reasonable nature. Anything but. He was known as a vile brute of a man, a bully, loaded with resentments, never willing to relinquish past slights whether real or imaginary.

And Fitzjohn would have to face him at some point. He would have a lot of explaining to do. It was difficult to see how he could talk his way out of a thorough thrashing, real and metaphorical. His lands would be confiscated. He could finish up as a beggar with a doubly broken nose.

The pope too, in expectation of some augmentation to his personal wealth – by whatever strange plan had been devised by means of such a gift – would be less than pleased at receiving nothing for his trouble.

Hildegard would not be in John Fitzjohn’s shoes at any price.

‘Keep out of his way,’ she advised Edmund.

‘It’s impossible, domina. Would that I could. I have the duties of an esquire to fulfil. But fear not, I grow in rage every day and rage makes giants of us all and giants have the strength and fortitude of ten.’

‘You cannot strike your lord without facing a grisly punishment.’

Edmund gazed steadily into her face for a moment but did not respond to her warning.

**

The rain let up at last but the river was twice as wide as usual except where it was forced like a mill race through the arches of St Benezet’s bridge. A crowd had gathered and everybody was staring down into the water.

By the time Hildegard reached the brow of the slope that led down to the half– submerged landing stage she noticed that they were pointing excitedly at something below the parapet and one or two men were beginning to scramble down the bank. Even from a distance she could make out the familiar faces of palace servants, a handful of retainers in the colours of Thomas Woodstock, several friars and a nun or two. Three burly servants from the kitchens were just now walking up onto the bridge to join the group further along and were obviously expected. They carried grappling hooks.

The onlookers stepped aside to let them have a look into the water and a discussion ensued.

With her morning walk interrupted Hildegard changed direction and started towards the crowd that was gathering.

As she drew near the onlookers were clustering against the parapet, staring down into the water. Several started to shout instructions to somebody below. She went up onto the bridge past the sentry but, unable to get much closer because of the press of onlookers, leaned over where she was to see what they were staring at.

Further along, near the bank, a mound of debris had become jammed between one of the arches. Made up of broken saplings, torn out by the flood waters, a tangle of branches, a log or two, and other flotsam from upstream it formed a temporary dam and with the water surging against it more debris was being piled up as they watched.

The river was runnning in spate in the deep channels between the many arches in mid river but closer to the bank the current was weaker and was unable to dislodge the fragile platform of flotsam that had become stuck. What everybody was pointing at was what looked like a heap of old clothes on this log-jam. They were half hidden by the rubbish that was continually being dragged along and cast onto it by the current.

A man she recognised as the ferryman was standing on the bank under the first arch of the bridge with a line attached to his boat. He was trying to drag it closer to the dam, pulling hard against the force of the current, the craft straining against the water as the river threw its full force against it. His muscles bulged as he pitted his strength on holding the line so as not to lose it altogether. The river made a din like a herd of bolting horses, above it his shouts to the men standing on the bridge were intensified by the echo underneath the stone arch. She watched him haul on the line without result. It looked as if he was trying to drag the boat close enough to the bank to use it as a bridge so he could step across to the log-jam. But it was held fast in the grip of the current.

Hildegard turned her attention to the thing that was lying on the raft of flotsam, the aim of his efforts and with a jolt she realised that what looked like a pile of rags was, in fact, a body lying askew among the wreckage.

She glimpsed a hand as it rose, lifted by the waves. It looked like a sign of life. Next minute she saw that it was just the surge of water causing an involuntary movement as the waves bubbled under the raft. Eventually she managed to make out the edge of a cloak, ballooning in the swirl of the current. It was definitely someone lying there, no doubt of that.

The ferryman was still straining on the line. He glanced up at the people on the bridge then shouted for one or two men to help him. ‘More beef!’ he yelled above the roar of the river. ‘I can’t hold her!’

Several men, already sliding down the muddy bank, rushed to grab the line. The ones with the grappling hooks slithered after them. Some of those leaning over the parapet ran back along the bridge as well and began to scramble down to add their own strength to the task.

‘That line’ll break if he’s not careful,’ somebody murmured next to Hildegard.

‘Gently does it!’ his companion muttered as the added muscle slowly began to haul the boat closer.

Little by little the men managed to draw it into a position such that it was broadside on to the river with the tail end of the line looped through a metal ring on the path and thrown to somebody standing on the bridge. They managed to steady it enough to enable a couple of volunteers to climb across to the raft where the body lay. The force of the current was forcing a continual overfall of white water to lick at the twisted debris and the men were soaked to the waists by the time they managed to risk their weight on it and jump across. All eyes were fixed on them as they tried to disentangle the body from the net of branches that held it.

‘Drowned,’ a fellow standing next to Hildegard exclaimed. ‘Must’ve fell in upstream. What do you make of that?’

‘Poor sod.’ His companion crossed himself.

A palace official stood at the top of the bank, discussing the matter with the people standing nearest. The men were still struggling with the lines and one of them, balancing on the swaying raft, was already in water up to his knees as the log jam began to break up under his weight. There were shouts from the bridge to save himself but he ignored them and began to reach out towards the body. Everybody saw him grasp hold of a bundle of fabric and begin to drag it towards the boat. Somehow, with the help of willing hands, he managed to lift the body into the boat.

A cheer went up from the onlookers. Then the men inside the boat had to steady themselves as it was pulled, pitching and yawing, back towards the bank.

Another cheer went up as it reached safety and the men scrambled ashore.

The crowd began to break into groups while some ran back along the bridge to get a better view of what had been snatched from the jaws of the river.

From her vantage point on the bridge Hildegard could make out that it was someone in a blue cloak. It looked like a young woman. A tangle of wild, dark hair. White hands. A ring.

She hovered on the edge of the crowd. That movement of the hand in the water might mean there was a life to be saved. She began to make her way down the muddy slope to the water margin.

Edmund was standing with a subdued group of Fitzjohn’s household servants in the shadow underneath the bridge. He caught sight of her and came over.

With a gulp of emotion, he said, ‘Domina, we cannot find out what has happened. Can you demand an explanation?’

‘Is she alive?’

He looked blank.

‘The body. Is she dead? How long has she been in the water?’

‘Don’t you know who it is?’

‘What do you mean?’

His face was paste white. ‘We fear – our fear is,’ he gulped, ‘that it’s Taillefer.’

The memory of how he had given them such a run in the tilt yard must have been uppermost in his mind because he said, ‘Fearless in combat. He did not hesitate to draw his sword in response to Elfric’s challenge. And when he did not return last night…’ he bit his lip.

‘Peace, it may not be him.’

Hildegard looked down towards the boat that was now being manhandled half out of the water onto the bank. So many people were beginning to cluster round that it was impossible to see who or what was in it. She began to push her way through. Several onlookers moved out of the way in deference to her Cistercian robes and she gently guided others aside until she was standing on the edge of the bank, looking down into the boat.

‘A prayer, domina,’ suggested one of the men, noticing her white habit. He was still clinging onto the stern line as they tried to stop the craft from sliding back into the embrace of the waters.

‘Wait, let’s see if it’s necessary.’

‘It’s a body, domina. There’s no doubt. It was lying among the driftwood the flood fetched down for a good while before we were able to get at it.’

The bundle of what looked like old clothing lay without moving in the bottom of the boat.

‘She may be merely stunned,’ she suggested, sliding down the shelving bank side until she was ankle-deep in mud at the bottom. The river roared as through a mill race underneath the arch making it difficult to hear what anybody was saying.

‘Careful! Deep water ahead!’ a voice shouted as a hand came out to restrain her.

‘My gratitude. I don’t intend to go further. Can you drag the boat further up the bank clear of the water?’

With a few shouts to coordinate their efforts several men lent their muscle to the task and with a roar of grating wood on loose stones the boat was prised from the grip of the river and at last fetched up, leaking tears, as it seemed, onto the grass higher up.

What Hildegard had seen as the tumbled garments of a woman turned out to be the court dress of a young man. Wet lace sleeves, velvet jerkin discoloured by river water, boots with embroidered ribbons attached to their ties, mud stained, all cast in a heap.

‘God save us, I was right. It is Taillefer,’ said Edmund’s voice at her elbow. He was staring in horror at the body.

‘He must have fallen in the river and been trapped in the debris,’ someone nearby speculated.

Then one of the burly men reached down and pushed back a hank of wet hair to reveal his neck and the wound was obvious. A gasp of horror went up. Like Maurice, the boy had had his throat cut.

Hildegard put a hand over her face for a moment. So young. Such a waste. That blessed light, extinguished forever.

For a moment no-one seemed to know what to do.

‘I think someone had better return to the palace with the news of what you have found,’ she suggested in a breaking voice. ‘The duke’s steward will need to be informed.’

She turned to Edmund and noticed that the other boys, his allies, the guild of pages, had straggled down to the water’s edge to stand beside him. ‘Perhaps it’s better,’ she turned to the men who had dragged the boat from the water, ‘to leave him as he is so that someone who knows about these things may inspect the body for any clues to his…’ she could not say the word just yet. ‘For any indication of what took place.’ she finished.

‘Probably got what was coming to him,’ muttered one of the men.

Hildegard gave him a fixed stare. ‘Perhaps we might reserve our condemnation until we’ve learned the facts?’

The man scowled, muttered something about the whoring that went on under the arch by night and moved away.

Edmund heard this and Hildegard felt him reach for his knife. She put a restraining hand on his arm.

Then a voice with a note of authority spoke up. ‘Louis, go and inform the Chamberlain. Everyone else stay here and do as the English nun says. Hear me?’ There was a general murmur of agreement and some sort of hierarchy of command was established. The curious onlookers were pushed back to an acceptable distance.

It was the palace official Hildegard had noticed earlier who had spoken. He was a thin, clerical looking fellow in secular attire and came to stand beside her after making sure his instructions were being carried out.

‘Would you like to take a closer look, domina, before our own men arrive? I know you went to view your countryman who was dispatched in a similar manner. Maybe it’s coincidental or perhaps there’s a connection?’ He bowed then. ‘Forgive me, I’m William of Beauvais, a clerk to his holiness.’

While the boat was being dragged right up to the top of the bank, they waited in silence. The guild of pages were standing round. Dumb with shock.

**

Taillefer. He could not have been in the water long because he was not bloated by it. Instead his face looked bloodless, the skin white, drawn across his delicate bones as if he had been sculpted in marble.

She stepped closer, bent down, picked up a wrist. No stiffness. He must have gone into the water only recently. She could see no other sign of struggle beyond the knife wound. His knuckles bore the signs of old scabs from earlier fights, the skin flaking away where it had been loosened by immersion in the cold waters of the Rhone. Finger nails bitten short. Outer garments soaked by river water. Outwardly everything was sluiced from him taking away any clues to his attacker.

She inspected his clothes more closely. They were the usual attire of someone retained by a wealthy noble, a cloak of heavy velvet protecting the garments underneath. Which were, a fine linen shirt, lace in the French style at neck and cuffs, a protective jupon made of soft kid over some thick padding, scarcely damp. No tears or rips. To be assumed, then, not much of a struggle had taken place. Did that mean his assailant was someone known to him? Someone he trusted? Or had he been taken by surprise, walking on the river bank in the early hours?

There was a pouch concealed under his jupon. It was buckled with two thin straps to a leather belt. She turned to the clerk. ‘May I?’

‘Go ahead, domina.’

She unknotted the leather ties and opened the pouch.

**

The clerk crouched down beside her and there was a note of astonishment in his voice. ‘Is he a thief?’

‘I think not.’

‘But this, it’s a valuable article. Beautiful workmanship. How could a mere esquire get hold of such a weapon? Was it a gift?’ He fingered the blade and drew blood. ‘Decorative, very, but lethal enough.’

‘I believe it’s the one that was held in the hand of the cardinal’s acolyte when he was murdered,’ she told him.

‘But this is a mystery. How could this young fellow come by such a thing?’

‘We can’t know yet. But,’ she turned to him with a grim smile, ‘we shall surely endeavour to find out.’

She held the jewelled dagger in the palm of one hand. What did it signify to warrant two murders?

A closer inspection than had previously been possible showed that the hilt of the dagger would unscrew. She hesitated.

Making a sudden decision she handed it to the clerk. ‘I believe this might be best kept somewhere safe?’

He saw that she had been about to unscrew the hilt and frowned. ‘I see. Safest not to touch it, domina.’ With pursed lips he took out a cloth and gingerly wrapped it round the dagger and held it in one hand. ‘We must handle it with care.’

He put it inside his cloak then helped her back to where the guild of pages were waiting.

‘It is Taillefer. And somebody has killed him.’ Elfric spoke like someone in a trance.

Edmund gave Hildegard a searching look. ‘That was the dagger we’ve been looking for, wasn’t it? He found it.’

She nodded.

‘He said he would.’

Elfric gripped the edge of her sleeve. ‘Is that why he was killed, domina? Because he discovered my brother’s murderer?’

‘We will have to think most carefully about this. I feel we’re close to finding the murderer, Elfric. Never fear. Step by step we will track him down.’

**

Taillefer’s body had been handed over to the authorities and now resided in the mortuary on the slab recently vacated by Maurice. Hildegard was sitting in the small chamber under the hall where the notaries carried out their work. A spiral staircase connected the two chambers and they would not be disturbed by any sudden visitor.

‘So, M’sieur,’ she began, ‘are you able to explain the provenance of the curious little dagger to me?’

‘The dagger was a gift to Clement in the days when he was a legate in Italy. It was a gift from the Duke of Milan.’

‘Notorious poisoners, the Milanese, I’m told.’

‘So it is rumoured.’

To suggest that it was more than rumour she mentioned Duke Lionel, second in line to the English throne some twenty years ago when his elder brother Edward, the heir to England’s crown, was still alive.

‘Lionel was betrothed to Violante of Milan, the duke’s daughter, but on his wedding night, before Violante could conceive, he was poisoned. That ended the English alliance with the Milanese. The rumour is – oh, forgive me, this is irrelevant to the problem at hand. Has anyone dared to open the hilt of the dagger yet?’

‘Our apothecary has done so. Of course, he found nothing in it. Whatever was in it had been removed.’

Hildegard gave him a straight look. He was lying. He knew she was aware of the fact.

‘This is not to say that there has never been poison in it,’ he hastened to add, to salve his sense of his own integrity. ‘What can we know? The river cleanses all things.’

She knew this was as far as he would go.

**

‘Please, domina, we have no-one else to speak for us. We’re in fear now. Taillefer’s death was foretold.’

‘Foretold?’

Edmund frowned at her look of disbelief. ‘That’s no astrologer’s prediction. It was a man in the yard yesterday who said it. He wore his vizor down.’

‘What blazon?’

‘None. We have no idea of his allegiance. But he said to Taillefer as clearly as I’m speaking to you now, “you will die,” and then strode off.’

‘Did Taillefer tell you this?’

‘No, we were all present. We heard him ourselves. We were just walking back from the tilt yard after making our plans for the game with the pig’s bladder.’

‘We took Sir Jack’s rage to heart and had been practising at the quintaine in a most exemplary manner,’ Peterkin interrupted.

‘No-one could have faulted us,’ added Bertram. ‘Then this man-at-arms comes up. Taillefer just laughed when he heard him. “Is that so, my man? And so will you if you are mortal,” he said. And we all chuckled and walked on as any man would at a mere verbal threat.’

‘Did this man-at-arms speak in French or some other language?’

‘In French but with a strange accent. He might even have been English. It was an uncouth mouthing whatever it was.’

‘We were not inclined to take notice of a warning issuing from such a fellow.’ Peterkin spread his arms. ‘Now, of course, we see he meant business.’

‘But why should Taillefer have invited such a warning?’ Hildegard asked.

‘That we don’t know.’

‘Was this before the plan for the miners was discussed?’

Edmund shook his head. ‘It was after that although our concern at that time was for the quintaine. We had no other thoughts in our head.’

‘Apart from the vow to track down Maurice’s killer,’ corrected Peterkin with a glance at Elfric. ‘Taillefer made no secret of his determination to find him.’

‘It wasn’t Taillefer who dared Maurice to break into the treasury was it?’ asked Hildegard, a light suddenly dawning. But her expectations were dashed when they dismissed the idea out of hand.

‘How do you know he didn’t?’ she demanded. ‘You didn’t arrive here until Maurice had been killed.’

‘We know Taillefer. We’ve met several times on the jousting circuit with our lords. He was aghast that anybody should try to enter the treasury. “He can’t have understood the depravity of the pope’s inquisitors to breach such a place,” he said, “There’s only one end to anybody foolish enough to risk it. And that’s the torture chamber. It’s a place of unutterable horror, the sure punishment should anyone try to steal from his holiness. Remember Cesena. Nobody is excused the wrath of Clement.” He believed it utterly. He lived in terror of the pope. He would not go near the treasury and nor would he encourage any of his friends to go there.’

**

By no means convinced by what Edmund had told her, she believed that their comments about the consequences of being caught suggested that the possibility had at least been discussed, even if in a desultory manner. Why else would Taillefer have expressed such fear of the punishment to be meted out to anyone who tried to do so if it hadn’t been mentioned?

**

She tried to find the sullen little page of the bedchamber who had received a dishonest penny and the chimerical promise of gold but discovered that this time he really had left for his village. It was a hamlet somewhere in the hills in the French Kingdom and she decided that what else he might be able to tell her would not be worth the difficulty of searching him out.

She made her way down to the ferryman’s cottage instead. Shuttered still. Smoke from the chimney. She rapped on the door.

It flew open and he stood four square in the doorway with his head slightly bent to avoid hitting it on the lintel. Aggrieved that his boat had been sequestered at the coroner’s insistence he at once poured out his anger against the pope and his interfering officials, demanding to know how he was supposed to turn an honest penny, not that anybody but a madman would want to use his boat with the river in spate, but even so, it wasn’t fair on a man.

She sympathised. Disclaimed any connection with the pope. He invited her in.

They sat in a cramped chamber below the thatch. With a couple of day’s stubble on his chin and wearing brown wool hose and a dark green tunic, he looked dependable, despite his grievance. It was reasonable, after all. A man had to eat.